G I Joe Season 3-3: TO LIVE AND DIE IN COPYRIGHTED LANDS
by continuityerror
Summary: The G I Joe team, trapped in a chaotic former Communist nation in South America, are hours away from a burn notice. One member faces what is very likely death in the escape! Meanwhile, a gang of sugar-addicted bikers are prepared to break out the rubber hoses, and the hidden past of Jinx is brought into the light! Also available here: smashwordsDOTcom/books/view/889920


SEASON 3.3

This is a work of parody. The author does not claim copyright ownership to any character featured in this work.

G. I. JOE and all related characters are © 2018 Hasbro, Inc.

All text is copyright © 2018 by Gene Kendall

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

CHAPTER ONE

Bexley flophouse, home to more than just a few layabouts on the dole. Notorious London street gang the Duggan Mandem owned the entire first floor, had their powder and pill operation pretty well set. No indulging while on the clock was the first rule of business, and no one could be blamed for thinking Pierce had violated that statute when he entered the packing room, eyes all buggy.

"Ninjas! Bloody ninjas just kicked down the front door!" he shrieked.

Not a soul believed him. Neil almost dropped a stack of baggies on his feet, laughing so hard. Their incredulity lasted under twenty seconds, as an armed strike force of strangers in white removed the reinforced door from its hinges.

They made no histrionic declarations as they entered; not that the Duggan Mandem should've expected them to. The brigade scattered, each selecting a quadrant of the room. Joining Ren, Gordo, their sensei and his prized female pupil were two other trainees—Gibbons and Anglo.

Like Gordo (or the "Gordo" façade crafted so carefully by secret agent man Matthew Burke), they were local punks, entranced by too many martial arts films of questionable merit. Different circumstances might've aligned their aimless lives with the Duggan Mandem, though they'd likely deny such a claim.

One thing was for certain, these boys were fiercely anti-drug. Having come up on the streets, they watched as the punk and dance scenes had become infected with the poison. Witnessed one friend too many give up his life in pursuit of these cheap highs. No, Gibbons and Anglo pursued a healthier thrill, the kind learned through the ancient disciplines of the East.

Invading a drug den, dodging shotgun blasts and switchblade-wielding maniacs, did carry its own risks, however. Gibbons and Anglo seemed oblivious to this, the former ducking with nary a millisecond to spare before sweep kicking the rifle out of the tough's hands, and the latter barreling over his adversary with a Shaolin Wushu somersault.

Not far away, Ren was using his size to his advantage, ducking between the legs of a 6'7 enforcer and landing a solid kidney punch before the behemoth knew what hit him. "Nice work, mate!" affirmed the man Ren still knew as Gordo, who'd just finished robbing a punk of his gun and twisting his arm in a hold so painful he had to cry uncle.

The sensei and his favorite student stayed close to one another. She was adept at finding a thug's center of gravity and tossing him over her diminutive shoulders. He was quite skilled at landing punishing kicks to their faces as they whizzed towards his body.

The action was concluded in under three minutes. Admiring the bodies on the floor, the sensei placed his hands on his hips and announced in his quirky cadence, "I am quite pleased this day! Your hard work honors me greatly." He gestured towards the door. "Now, escape like the breeze; let no one see you! My…assistant and I will dispose of these wretched poisons."

Tripwire returned the clipboard to Delcy, Luisa's chief of staff; rumored to be involved in more than one way with Luisa, per the mission briefing. General Hawk wasn't keen on delving into personal details, but this was presented as information that might become relevant. Tripwire wasn't thinking of any palace intrigue at the moment, just choking down his irritation and focusing on doing his job.

"I can't sign off on this."

Delcy's copper eyes flashed. "And why not?"

"Because I haven't had an opportunity to verify any of these claims," Tripwire responded, referencing the absurd list Delcy had presented him. No indication of Cobra spying equipment onsite. No evidence of illegal weapons technology discovered on the premises. How was he supposed to know?

Delcy clicked his pen, again offered the clipboard to his companion. "Obviously, my friend, these are unique circumstances. Don't you think, in light of the distressing events of the day, you'd be willing to bend the rules?"

"No way," he answered, again fanning the clipboard away. "Sorry, but it can't work like that. I need at least two ten-hour days, with my _entire_ squad, to properly sweep this facility. National tragedy or no, I have to complete my mission."

"I am, _strongly_ , urging you to reconsider, my friend."

Tripwire closed his eyes, told himself he wasn't getting a migraine. "Okay, 'friend,' let me reconsider now." He opened his eyes, gave Delcy a look he hoped communicated his seriousness. "Nope. Answer is the same. Not gonna happen."

He felt the presence behind him. Matías, Delcy's personal guard, all six-five, two-eighty of him, towering over the soldier, utilizing a silent intimidation to counter Delcy's brand of chatter. The Joe prepared for the worst, tried to conjure up some way to fight this behemoth off and not damage his shoulder even worse.

"Delcy!" came a familiar voice, down the south hallway.

The chief of staff turned his head, his expression revealing his ignorance. Two uniformed guards, not ones he recognized. "Yes…?" he asked with suspicion.

One of the guards approached Delcy, approached a little too close. Said something to him in Spanish; too low for the rest to hear. Delcy's private sentry didn't like this. Tried to step to the new guard, was promptly ordered by Delcy to stand down.

"It's okay, Matías. I'll, ah, be working in my office. You, meanwhile, need to relieve a guard over at section seventeen." Delcy gave a final look to the guard with the mystery message, a mix of disgust and deferential terror.

Tripwire had discerned the situation. Had a feeling Matías the Giant was catching on, as well. "Shouldn't you be leaving, bud?"

Matías leaned over, nearly touched foreheads with Tripwire. "You gonna make me, _Americano_?"

The two guards stepped closer; both prepared to handle Matías. Didn't expect unassuming little Tripwire to use his good arm to slug the creep. Couldn't believe the sight of Matías, biggest man in the room, going down like a lead beach ball.

"My man…" whispered one of the guards.

"Didn't think you had that in you, Specialist," said the other one, pride in his voice.

Tripwire wasted no time, retrieving Matías' errant beret and unbuttoning his shirt. "Everyone gets a lucky punch sooner or later. And was that crack a _compliment_ , Lieutenant?" he asked.

Falcon didn't respond. Instead, turned to his fellow "guard" and said, "Had no idea you spoke Spanish, Low-Light."

"Full of surprises," he replied, as Tripwire slipped Matías' uniform over his existing outfit, hoping the added bulk would decrease the bagginess.

"What'd you say to scare that dweeb away?" Tripwire asked, his shoulder throbbing as he unfastened his sling and pulled on Matías' shirt.

"Not fit for gentle ears, pal." Low-Light gave his teammate a nod. "But I'm impressed, way you remained frosty just now."

"Yeah, no offense, but I always heard you had a rep as something of a klutz."

"One time!" Tripwire exclaimed, pulling up the saggy olive drab slacks. The pain in his voice seemed equal parts physical and psychological. "One time, we're hosting a reception for Colonel Sharpe. First week after my transfer, by the way. The day we inaugurate the Utah base, I'm asked to deliver a tray of drinks to his table." Falcon approached with the sling, offering aid. " _Maybe_ I was nervous; more likely, Breaker waited 'til the last minute to mop the floors and didn't tell anyone. Regardless, I slipped."

"And the colonel…?" asked Falcon, fastening the sling in the back.

"Ended up with a shower of icy fruit punch. Hawk and Stalker were at the table, couldn't hold back their giggles. That day forward, Tripwire's the klutz, and ain't that funny, given his occupational specialty?" Tripwire looked to his companions, their blank expressions offering neither reassurance nor judgment.

The specialist collected himself. "Anyway. Jinx. We're rescuing her, right?"

Siddhasana position, eyes closed, Jinx was no longer residing within her techno-futurist cell. She was walking the stone-work, admiring the water garden of the Arashikage compound under the midday sun. That precise taste of the Pacific breeze, the song of the brown thrush in the distance, blossoms floating in the pond, how familiar it all seemed.

Familiar, even though this place had been set ablaze when she was but a child. Eradicated years before Jinx would learn of her heritage, have an opportunity to make this connection with her ancestors.

"What would you do without me?" asked a voice from her west, dipping his toes in the rivulet. "Moseyin' through the cracks between asleep and awake, life and death, and dishing out these nice tidbits?"

"You're a saint, sensei."

The Blind Master splashed water at his student. Laughed as she danced out of its way, so terrified of her double-layered floral dress getting wet. "Locked in a cell like this, enjoyin' your quiet time, I guess you wouldn't have access to this primo intel."

"Ya got me," she spoke sarcastically, pausing to admire the koi. Her attention was soon diverted.

Did the reflection reveal a lie? Purple and blush. Cut just above the knee. Dressed like some European businessman's trophy wife. What was she thinking?

Maybe the sensei knew. Not that he'd ever tell. More important matters at the moment. "He's at the airport. One named after some general. Got himself into a foul mood; it's stinkin' up the whole astral plane."

"I'm sure it is."

The sensei, perhaps feeling merciful, ignored her sarcasm. "Got a rescheduled flight. Leaves in an hour."

Jinx sighed, tossed her shoes off and dipped into the water. "Great. And I'm stuck in here?"

"Here" was actually quite nice. The "here" of the mind's eye. The "here" of reality, meanwhile, had grown increasingly maddening.

"Ut-uh. Who's letting those nasty emotions in now, girl?"

"Whatever. It's _frustrating_. Didn't Mainframe get the message by now? Why hasn't…?"

It was as if the universe itself was responding. She felt the heat of the sun go out, witnessed the world around her grow dark. Opened her eyes, knew instantly that she shouldn't have been so huffy.

Of course she could count on Mainframe. It was his idea, sneaking along some gizmo that'd enable him access to the base's computerized systems. All they need do was plug it into an electrical outlet; back at the Joe's base, he'd handle the hacking from there. If anyone got nosey, just tell them it's one of those plug-in air fresheners. Didn't they have those yet in Punto del Mucosa?

Shutting off the power was Jinx's special request; and if she were to have another astral conversation with her sensei, she'd be sure _not_ to bring it up. She could guess where that would go—an hour of him boasting about how much she needed the "Ear That Sees" and "Eye That Pierces" after all; just how fortunate she was to be saved from the gutter by such a magnanimous figure.

No need to swell his head any bigger.

She knew the exact spot to kick; a failsafe designed to open the doors in the event of power outages. (Valuable intel provided to the Joes by Mercer, an ex-Viper who only possessed a postcard's worth of information on these Terrordromes, but was eager to divulge every word.)

Jinx stepped into the dark. Fifteen seconds later, two guards with flashlights would be patrolling the hall. She discerned their approach seconds before the light hit, sensing the vibrations of their steel-toe boots.

Temptation arose. Even with their portable light, no way those guards had a shot against her in the dark. She'd love to charge directly into them, bang those bodies against the walls, and find a new home for those flashlights.

Stupid risk, though. Not hard to guess where they were headed. She settled on a more tactical approach, ducked back into her cell. Top of the commode gave her the leverage she needed, getting that perch on the ceiling.

The lights approached. Two guards, agitated, speaking their home tongue, entered. Worst fears confirmed, the dangerous little woman missing. She knew enough Spanish to pick up the gist of their conversation, to recognize the crude and demeaning words being used to describe her.

Jinx waited until they turned to leave, just as the lead guard passed the doorway. Landed on the straggler with a _thud_ , or as he put it, a perplexed " _whoomph?!_ "

Flashlight rolling across the floor, the guard contorted his body, swung wildly. Did an admirable job, forcing Jinx to abandon her superior position, back-flipping into the doorway. She felt the footsteps of his partner, the one with the real pottymouth, approach. Opted against taking an easy shot.

Instead, she awaited the opportune moment, ducked as soon as the lead guard violated her personal space. Received the other guard's fist as his rebuke.

"Thanks, pal, bruising your knuckles on my account," she taunted.

Jinx grabbed her unwitting ally, flipped him over her shoulder. Hoped he'd land on the lead guard, but had to be content with the mope slamming his worthless body against the wall instead.

The lead guard turned out to be tougher than she expected. Nose was likely busted, but the man's pace hadn't slowed. Taking advantage of that flashlight he'd managed to keep a grip on, the guard used his free hand to block Jinx's fist during a strike. Was even able to twist it, twist _her_ around, pull her closer to his sweaty, anxious body.

Back against his chest, Jinx recognized the precariousness of this position. Decided to end it post-haste, with a fast elbow to his breadbasket and, without even twisting her body around, two open palms against his ears.

Maybe she should tell Blind Master about this, assuming they ever had one of those bizarr-o conversations again. Even he should be proud of that one.

Jinx confirmed her captors were unconscious, lifted every weapon she could from their bodies. Her instinct was to race to the motor pool, find a vehicle she had a shot of piloting, then get on the road to the airport. If those visions were true, she had no choice. This monster had to pay; had to answer for over two decades of evil.

So many years ago, she thought her entire life was leading to this moment.

But what of her friends? Could she abandon the mission, abandon _them_ in the midst of the "investigation?" Could she deny a similar fate awaited Falcon, Tripwire, and Low-Light?

Jinx breathed a profanity, changed her course immediately. Had to smile, though, at the thought of reuniting with her friends. _Okay, you goldbrickin' slackers. Guess it's up to the zany ninja chick to pull your fat out of the fire_.

Suddenly, the weight of three figures pulsated beneath her feet. All of them a decent poundage, all male. Jinx reached for the pistol she'd swiped a minute earlier.

More guards? Must be, they had the right boots…

"Hiya, Jinx," a voice called to her. "Guess we're all in trouble now, huh?"

 _September 23, 1972_

Erica asked for jazz dance; Mom said those classes were on the other side of town, that she'd have to take martial arts with Kevin if she wanted an afterschool activity. Erica grumbled for a week, discovered after her third class she was a natural. Only girl in the Academy, but it didn't matter. And Kevin? He punked out after two months.

He's cheering her on from the stands, now. Along with Mom and Dad. Erica bows to her sensei and accepts her second place trophy. Exchanges high-fives with her friends in the Academy. Walking to the refreshment stand, she spots that odd girl who sometimes appears at the tournaments.

Standing alone, sipping her water, the girl's barely taller than the grand champion sparring trophy she earned twenty minutes earlier. Won against a fifteen-year-old opponent. A male one, Randy Flatt, previous winner of the past three tournaments.

Horrible, how he sprained his wrist so bad. Had to be taken out on a stretcher.

She's taking sips, staring at the floor, one hand on the cup, the other on that trophy. Kids walk by, whisper and point at her.

Erica, not a fan of the way everyone ostracizes this girl, approaches. Waves hello, smiles big. "Hi, I'm Erica. I don't think we've ever been introduced."

The girl fidgets, shyly nods a greeting. "Hey."

"Could I ask your name?"

The girl, her pewter finish prize resting on the table, didn't seem to be expecting the question. "Kimi," she says after a pause.

"Well, Kimi, it's good to meet you. I've seen you spar before; it's really something." Erica notices Kimi's attention fading, returning to the trophy. Tries to keep this going; tries to discern if this is a real girl before her or some automaton engineered specifically for youth sporting events. "I'll bet Randy is, what, two years older than you?'

"Three, yeah," Kimi responds, her hand caressing the rosewood base.

"So, how long have you been into tae kwon do?"

Kimi takes her attention off the trophy for a moment, comes just short of looking Erica in the eye. "My, ah, my dad was into this." She corrects herself. "Not competing, though. More of a family thing."

"Is he here today?"

Kimi doesn't like this. Shakes her head, looks back down at the floor. "No. He's gone now. My sensei takes me to these. Says I need the practice." Erica isn't sure how to answer. Kimi actually saves her. "You're, ah, one of the few girls I see at these things."

Erica titters. Puts her hand on Kimi's arm. "I was gonna say the same to you. Nice to know we're not the only ones, right?"

Kimi's lips turn into a slight smile. "Yeah. I guess it is."

"Where is your sensei? Do you think he'd mind if my family took you out to the Dairy King for lunch? Dad always takes—"

"Girl, stop bothering your betters," speaks a deep voice. It belongs to a broad, dark man, wearing sunglasses indoors. He approaches, takes Kimi by the arm.

"Oh, she's not bothering me, sir," Erica says in defense. She examines the man, disapproves of the scorn on his face. "Who are you?"

He looks her way. Laughs a little. "Nosy one, huh? I'm the person who takes care of this derelict," he says, nodding towards Kimi. "C'mon, girl, we're leaving. An' make sure you take your new best friend here."

Erica doesn't know what to say; realizes as she opens her mouth that he's gesturing towards Kimi's trophy with his cane. Is this guy actually blind? Doesn't carry himself that way.

She gives them a twenty second head start. Examines the strange man's body language as he herds Kimi out of the gymnasium's rear exit. When Erica's family comes down from the bleachers to congratulate her, she asks for a moment alone.

Erica follows Kimi and the stranger outside into the alley. He's tapping the back of her legs with that cane; not _hitting_ her necessarily, but there's clearly no affection in those raps.

She's starting to well up. "But I want to keep it! I _earned_ it."

The stranger snorts, snaps his head the other direction in disgust. "You doin' this for the baubles now? This the warrior I'm raising? You think when _he_ finally tracks you down, presses that knife against your throat, he's gonna be impressed by this shiny nonsense?"

He rips the trophy from her hands, flings it into the nearby dumpster. "Cripes, girl. Like I haven't taught you a thing."

Kimi's still sobbing. She tells him it isn't fair. He shakes his head in shame, leans into her ear. Body language grows even tighter as he whispers, with force, a brief sentence.

Whatever he says, it quiets her down.

CHAPTER TWO

"Okay, this is far enough," she said to the JPATS pilot, barrel of the gun still lodged into his back. Not a native of the state, Roger Marshall wouldn't have recognized the subtle scent of the nearby spider lilies. The gooshy texture under his feet, however, did hint at his whereabouts.

Blindfolded, terrified, he spoke to his captor: "Please, ma'am. I'm just a pilot. I-I had a job to do, and h-had no idea I'd—"

"Why are you still actin' so nervous?" she asked, incredulous.

"I just want y-you to know th-that I have a family, and—"

"Crikey. If we ain't hurt you yet, what makes y'think we're gonna start now?" Zarana holstered her gun, stepped closer to remove Roger's blindfold. His eyes adjusted to the minimal light, informed him quickly of his location. A dank swamp worthy of any B-movie monster. "Now, you see that path through the trees?" she asked, pointing northward. "Keep goin' through there. You'll hit the road soon enough."

Roger Marshall, father of two, beloved son and father, caught a few breaths before speaking. "You mean you're not…oh, thank you. Thank you so much, ma'am." Roger began his sprint.

"Hey, pal, wait! Y'forgot your partin' gift," Zarana called from behind. Roger debated ignoring her. Questioned if he could lose the witch out in this marsh. Considered that gun holstered by her waist and thought better of it.

He turned. Noticed for the first time the duffel bag strapped to the Dreadnok's back. She removed the bag with one hand, raised the pistol with the other.

Roger assumed he was caught in the middle of some sick game. Had to swallow his pride once more, demean himself by pleading again with these animals. "I-I just want to go home, ma'am. Can't you just let me—"

"Would you stop with that 'ma'am' nonsense? I look like a schoolteacher to ya? Now," she commanded, tossing the bag at Roger's feet, "you need to open this."

Hands shaking, Roger reached for the zipper. Whispered another prayer as he opened the bag, cursing the surrounding sounds of frogs, crickets, and owls. The racket they were kicking up had to be covering the _tic-toc_ of whatever explosive was hiding in the sack.

Bag unzipped, Roger slowed his breathing and looked inside. In the poor light, in this state of disbelief, he had to question if he was truly seeing this.

The bag was packed with American currency. Mountains of bills. Fifties. Probably $10,000 worth. Under the stacked, banded bills, a clipboard.

"See, we ain't the monsters you thought we was. Now, I'm gonna need that form signed."

Roger spoke in a whisper. "This…this can't be for real."

"Hey, you landed that bird all right, didn't ya?" Zarana said while clicking her pen. Offering it to Roger, she added, "And your silence is worth a price. Now, I wouldn't suggest negotiating a better one…"

Hands still quivering, Roger signed the form in triplicate. Zarana accepted the papers, nodded, then ripped off the final pink copy. She handed it to Roger, advised him to locate a creative accountant this tax season.

"Power's back," Tripwire blandly stated as the lights returned, the team racing towards the motor pool.

Jinx, adjusting the floppy beret that fit about as well as the rest of her capacious, stolen ensemble wouldn't let this go. "Very observant," she quipped.

Only three seconds later, the sirens began to blare. Falcon spoke over the ruckus, "Shouldn't surprise us. They have to know something's up by now."

Low-Light reached the door button first, ducked his head in quickly to reconnoiter the motor pool. To his right, the vehicle entrance, now shut. On the left, a gaggle of red berets. No guards in the immediate vicinity, though, no one close enough to examine the Joes and recognize just how badly those uniforms fit. He motioned the team to enter.

"Blast it," said Falcon, noticing guards scattered in the distance, obstructing access to the trucks and jeeps parked on the opposite side of the garage. "Main entrance must be over there. Already crawling with security."

Low-Light snorted with frustration. "Blocking that cargo truck I had my eye on…"

Tripwire pointed his teammates towards a side office. Falcon nodded, then reminded the Joes to maintain their posture. They're not "sneaking around," they're guards on the lookout for the escaped prisoners.

A grease monkey was at the desk, pained expression on his mug as he tolerated the sirens, flipping through his clipboard and valiantly concentrating on his monthly maintenance responsibilities. He looked away from the papers long enough to address his guests. "Hey, I hope this isn't a drill, because—"

That posture granted them an extra second of stealth. "Oh, no," the grease monkey spat just before Falcon's fist smashed into his face.

"Thank the good Lord that one didn't know any obscure kung-fu," the lieutenant muttered to himself, as the body fell to the floor.

"So, are we just supposed to look busy in here or what?' Jinx asked, pulling the grease monkey behind the desk. Falcon didn't answer, just directed Tripwire to close the blinds.

There was a plan, sure. Find a vehicle, steal it, and get the heck away from here. Specific details weren't Falcon's forte, but it's not as if most successful Joe missions didn't involve at least a small amount of improv.

The sound of hydraulics lifting the motor pool's vehicle entrance doors lifted his spirits, as well. Gave him an excuse to shush any of the Joes asking for more details on this escape plan. Falcon peeked through the blinds, observed a Stun vehicle coasting into the shop. Only one driver, likely returning from his patrol. He removed the keys, headed for the office.

Falcon ordered his team to gather around the door. Welcomed the driver back with a dogpile before the door could even close. Low-Light happened to be the Joe who caught the keys; with no orders, the team followed him to the parked Stun. The sniper entered the top driving seat, the explosive ordnance expert taking an unwelcome spot above his shoulder.

"You're kidding, aren't you?" asked Tripwire, as he observed Low-Light puzzling over the controls. The setup was the dream of a Hollywood set designer, bearing little resemblance to the humble dash of the tactical trucks back home.

Jinx nodded. "Trip has a point. What makes you think we can steer this thing?"

"Snakes can do it…" Low-Light grumbled, the engine now purring, though the Stun remained in Park.

" _He's_ right," Falcon declared, choosing his side. As he directed Tripwire to join him and Jinx in the seats below, he added, "Can't be too hard to grok."

As if on cue, the Stun lurched forward. Not the desired direction, as it brought the Joes closer to the snooping guards. Low-Light corrected course, spun the vehicle to the right. Switched gears into reverse, then redirected the Stun northward.

"Think we got time to make it?" asked Falcon, as he witnessed the closing hydraulic doors looming closer.

" _Pff._ No problem," Low-Light replied, attempting to shift the Stun into an advanced gear. The vehicle lurched in three different spurts before complying, but the MPH did noticeably increase.

If the Joes could've heard anything over the sound of the charging Stun, it likely would have been the cries of a guard named Matías, clad in sleeveless t-shirt and boxers, sprinting into the side entrance. "Stop!" he shouted. "Men, open fire on that Stun!"

The team didn't notice Matías, but the bursts of automatic fire breezing past the sides of their vehicle did draw their attention.

Falcon, looking back, announced, "It's your glass-jaw buddy, Tripwire."

Thinking of the throbbing pain extending from his shoulders to his knuckles, Tripwire answered, "I wouldn't be counting on a repeat performance, Lieutenant."

Low-Light floored the Stun's equivalent of a gas pedal, started to have second thoughts about making that door after all. Decided if he were to go out, he'd do it with some style.

The "autopilot" controls were simple enough to find, compared to the rest of the perplexing dash. Low-Light clicked them on, ducked into the rear of the vehicle, and manned the "round-off" circular magazine machine gun.

"Think you can operate those cannons up front, folks?" he asked, aware the hydraulic doors were soon to be the smallest amount of property damage inflicted here. Narrowly avoiding a few blasts himself, Low-Light opened fire on the Punto del Mucosa guard.

Falcon found the right controls; reduced the doors to little more than paper just in time. The final burst of Low-Light's weapon ignited a barrel of oil. Three jeeps and four trucks were immediately consumed. Low-Light, nearly felled by the impact, returned to the driver's seat, sweat forming on his brow. "Had a feeling this would turn out full-on FUBAR. More fun than I was expecting, though."

The heat of the explosion followed the Joes for what felt like a mile. Jinx didn't seem as shellshocked as the others. Was far more concerned with inspecting what passed for a glove box inside a Stun. "Anyone have a map?" she asked, disappointed. "Engine in this baby might be able to get us to the airport in time."

"We're headed to the safehouse, Jinx," her lieutenant answered. "No way we're attracting any fire at a civilian location."

" _You_ can go there, but _I_ have to stop the snake who set me up."

"What's that supposed to mean?" queried Tripwire.

Jinx pretended she didn't hear the question. Couldn't conceive of a way to inform her teammates this precious intel had been provided to her in a dream. "I know what I'm talking about, and I'm telling you I—"

Falcon wouldn't budge. "No, you have an obligation to _follow orders_ like the rest of us!"

"But—"

"No debate, Jinx," he scolded, finger thrust in her direction. "We're going to the safehouse, getting word to base, and that's the end of it."

Were the vehicle not barreling through this dirt road at approximately 80 MPH, she would've leapt out the side.

A low-rent meal by Matthew Burke standards, but he guessed greasy fish and chips at a corner pub to be a favorite of Gordo's. Ren proved just how assimilated he was, indulging happily in the oily meal, washing it down with a pint or three.

"So, spend a lot of time taking down drug-dealing gits, do we?"

Ren answered with his mouth full. "Safe targets. Not going to call the authorities. And most are too terrified for a rematch."

"I would guess not!" Burke replied with a grin. "Doubt too many of 'em ever viewed ninjas as an occupational hazard."

"Not the same, though," Ren said while wiping his fingers and shaking his head. "A year ago, my class was plowing through those primates, showing no mercy. Plodders hardly cared; just chalked it up to more gang violence. Figured the nasties were getting what they deserved."

"So what's changed?"

Both irritated and amused, Ren answered, "New sensei in charge; not that he'd acknowledge it. Thinks he's got me fooled, but I trained under the _real_ Storm Shadow. Was a member of the class disbanded back when he disappeared. Heard rumors weeks ago that he'd returned, that Cobra was assembling a new crew. I looked into it, got my hopes up. That's when I met this new bloke."

"You sure he's an imposter?"

"He's _weak_ ," Ren said, forehead creased. "Shows mercy on these dogs. It's sickening."

"And why are you standing by him if you're convinced—?"

"Cobra vouches for 'im. Way I figure, I respect the organization's wishes and stick with it; see what I can learn from the man." Ren paused, then lifted his pointer finger. " _And_ , keep an eye on him. If he is some plant, if he needs to be dealt with, I'll be in a position to do something about it."

Matthew Burke gave way to Gordo, forced himself to swallow more chips. "So, you and this Storm Shadow—the _real_ one—he must've meant something to you."

Ren's stone face twisted into a smile. "He barely knew I existed, I'm sure. I was just one more piece of clay to be kneaded into shape. But I can respect that; I wasn't looking for some warm and fuzzy father figure. Wanted to become as lean and mean as possible, and I knew that stone-cold maniac was the man for the job."

The secret agent absorbed the words. Ren's admiration for this killer was evident, just as plain as his disdain for the replacement sensei. Even if Storm Shadow didn't give a rip about the lad, he'd made an impression during their time together. When the moment came, Burke had no doubt Ren would slip a dagger between the ribs of this American imposter.

And, before his conscience could eat at him, nag Burke about warning his uneasy ally, inspiration struck the agent.

Revived interest in his eye, he asked, "Ren, what you said earlier about Cobra vouching for this sensei. How would you know?"

"Went on a few Cobra ops with the sensei," Ren responded, after finishing his sip. "The real one, of course. Impressed some of the Brass. Not bragging, but I do have some contacts within the org."

"And they know you're suspicious?"

Ren answered with pride, "Darn straight they do. They say he's legit, but I've heard some rumors going 'round. Got some ears open inside the org; they'll let me know if they can confirm Storm Shadow's true location."

An alternate means of locating the ninja? Burke attempted to contain his grin. Tolerating this artery-clogging excuse for a meal and the company of a burgeoning psychopath hadn't been a waste after all. Offering his pint glass across the booth, he said, "Well, mate. Let's enjoy a toast—to friendship!"

 _December 4, 1973_

She pulls the hood over her hair, still not entirely dry after that afternoon's rest stop shampoo. "It's cold out, sensei."

The Blind Master snorts. "This is LA, girl. When I take you to the Baekdudaegan, you'll learn from cold."

Another of his quirks, boasting of these far-off lands they're going to visit. How they shaped him into a man after his tour of duty, granted him a new perspective on life, even as he lost his earthly vision.

She'd stopped believing in them by now, resigned herself to knowing they'd never leave the Los Angeles area. Weren't even going to the tournaments anymore, per his latest edict.

No, time for play-fighting is done, he's told her. She has to learn how to handle herself in a real scrap. That's why they've spent five hours a night every night for the past week, staking a claim on this rooftop.

Sensei swore this was the perfect spot. That people didn't realize just how bad this neighborhood had gone to seed; too many ignorant souls cruising through here, headed back to their cars when the after-work Christmas shopping is done. Too many easy targets.

Four days in a row, he'd been wrong. She'd like to tease him, but isn't willing to endure the extra drills he'd impose. Doesn't think she can tolerate another three-hour banana tree workout session.

Tonight, Blind Master is vindicated. Kimi watches the action from three stories above. Small, frail woman is carrying two wrapped packages. She adjusts the boxes, reaches for her purse, tries to find her keys. Scraggly-looking snot appears, hair down past his butt, tries to sweet talk her.

He has a buddy, this one barely has any hair at all, who rushes past. Nabs that purse, knocks the innocent woman over in the process. Hairball joins him, laughing.

Kimi turns to her sensei; he nods. She sprints to the edge of the building, aims for its neighbor, an alley only ten feet wide between them. She drops, her sneakers hit stucco, momentum shifts her back. She remains upright, turning her body and switching her lead foot. She hits her original building, grips a window for only a heartbeat's time for balance, then kicks off again.

Sneakers hit the second building and she allows herself to fall; spreads her arms as she performs the midair flip. Hits the alley with all that pesky momentum dissipated, her petite frame spared the fate gravity had planned.

Above, the Blind Master has filtered out the din of the cars, the sound of his breathing. Focused on his pupil, he notes she hit the concrete with too much of her weight centered on that left knee. Exhaled noticeably after landing, too. Either she was carrying more nerves than she let on, or she'd failed to burn off enough energy—be it gravity or those irrational, nattering voices within—on her trip down.

Either way, he'll be certain she knows about it.

Kimi charges out of the alley, cuts off the two punks before they reach the next block. Does her best to adopt the proper face, the stance that will let the vermin know she's serious. "Drop that purse," she commands.

The sound of her voice, that pipsqueak ultimatum, is innately amusing. They laugh. One, the baldie, giggles harder than the other. The Hairball just steps forward, takes a swing.

Kimi dodges to the left, seizes his arm, ducks under. He's saying something vulgar, not even a full sentence, when she tightens her grip and flips him over on his back. Baldy thinks this is even funnier.

"That girl just…you…straight on your…!" He can't complete a sentence either, wheezing so hard with shock and joy.

Hairball rises, bulls his way towards Kimi. She aims a jab at his nose, connects. Hairball feels it, but the pain isn't enough to slow his momentum. Not enough to prevent him from colliding into her.

Kimi's on the sidewalk now, one arm pinned by the Hairball. She wiggles it free, uses both hands to slap his ears simultaneously. A move the Blind Master said should only be used as a last resort…or against some total scumbag who truly deserved it. Hairball howls with pain.

Baldy realizes how serious this is now; she hears the scuffle of his shoes against the pavement. Also catches the wind generated by his sliding blade _flick_ ing from the handle.

She isn't fully off the ground when he strikes. A miniscule voice wonders if sensei will accept that as an excuse later. But the bulk of Kimi's attention is focused on avoiding the blade. Bad enough the hairless rodent sliced a portion of her sweatshirt. (A personal favorite for the past few months. Fished out of a Salvation Army box, still too big on her, but such a lovely shade of red.)

Heart pumping faster than she'd admit, Kimi parries to avoid the second slice. Successful dodge, but she's lost track of her surroundings. Ends up spilling over the half-risen form of Hairball.

On the pavement _again_. Second time in less than fifteen seconds. Kimi knows this will be more than a lecture, this is a full week's worth of drills and torturous memorization exercises.

Baldy is lording over her with the switchblade. His eyes confirm it's no longer a joke; reveal he's scared, too. Didn't expect some tiny chick with delusions of kung-fu glory to ruin his fun tonight. Knows now he has to do what's required to neutralize the threat.

Doesn't make anything better for Kimi. Frightened animals are the most dangerous.

Kimi acts without thinking, kicks at his kneecap. As he recoils, she guesses she made the right call. She bounces up, drives her shoulder against his gut with every ounce of strength.

The move doesn't knock him over, but the knife does drop to the ground. Kimi kicks it away, thinks she can work in a fast strike with her right. Baldy takes a swing instead.

Kimi blocks with both hands, yet the force is strong enough to push her back over an inch. He presses forward, violates her space and gets both hands on her.

Baldy has one hand on her left arm. Presses down tight, almost hard enough to break. Other hand reaches behind her neck, snatches her hood.

She's impressed by his presence of mind. Grabbing the hood, pulling it over her head like that. Baldy isn't able to get another punch in, but that's because Hairball has maneuvered behind Kimi, kicking her in the back.

"Aaggh!" she screams reflexively. She should be proud of herself, controlling the fall, spinning, and landing on all fours. Instead, she's furious; leaving her back exposed like that, shrieking like some baby because she got an ouch-ee.

She probably should pull that hood back behind her head, but she's already picked up the sound of the two punks approaching. Fast. _Just follow the sound of those feet_ , she tells herself.

Both punks are stunned by her charge. Kimi has Hairball's arm in hand before he even finishes the swing, drags it down, knees his elbow, then shoves him into Baldy. He pushes Hairball out of the way; doesn't expect Kimi to drop low, ball up those fists and hammer down on his wounded knee.

Before he falls over, she's back up, pulling at his jacket. Hairball thinks he's recovered, thinks he's got this. He makes a move towards Kimi, and finds his face smashed against his friend's.

Both fall to the pavement, unconscious, or close enough to it. Kimi controls her breathing, listens hard to discern any movement from her opponents.

Then realizes she's yet to adjust her hood. She wipes the fabric from her face, studies the forms of her enemy. Questions if she should take joy in this violence; if sensei would be ashamed if he knew how deeply she loathed it.

She recognizes the sound of his shoes approaching. Isn't sure if she's ever heard him run that fast.

"Stupid, stupid…"

Kimi tenses up, debates apologizing versus defending her screw-ups. Dreads the lecture, the discipline that's surely coming. "Sensei—"

"So stupid. Should've known better," he pants, steadying himself with his cane. He doesn't remember the last time he ran so fast, either.

"I did the best I could, I—"

He places his hand on her shoulder. "I know you did, girl. Just foolish of me, sending you down here like that. Should've known you weren't ready for two-on-one."

Kimi registers the words, shoots back, "Hey, looks like I did not so bad, I'd say."

Blind Master takes three more breaths. Taps the vermin with his cane. "Didn't they steal a pocketbook? Where is it?"

Kimi points to where Baldy dropped the purse. "I'll get it."

Under the streetlight, she has a better view. Name brand, leather & suede handbag. Doesn't think twice opening it up, looking inside for cash.

"I know I didn't just hear Velcro crackle, girl," he calls out.

"I'd say we need it more than her, sensei. You really think that broad's gonna miss any of this?"

"That honestly what you think, girl?" He beckons her closer. "Come explain yourself."

Doesn't seem to be much to explain, but Kimi complies. Has the change purse open as she walks, ready to point out this rich lady keeps fifties rolled up like it's no big deal. His hand is out, beckoning for the bag.

And when she's close enough, he filches it from her with startling force. "You don't want me to tan your hide with this thing, do you?!"

"N-no, sensei."

"Then take it, keep it closed, and go an' find that lady. You want to prove you're hot stuff? Then you show that woman her proper respect and return what's hers."

Kimi wants to protest. Wants to ask why they have nothing. The urge fades, however, when she thinks back to his previous answers.

He'd tell her not to feel entitled. Not to compare her old life to her new one. Not to distract herself with material possessions.

She had a higher calling. Her family's legacy depended on it.

CHAPTER THREE

They're not supposed to call it "The Pogo." Dr. Mindbender had already christened the experimental craft "The Ballistic Battle Ball," was quite pleased with his use of alliteration. Had no clue if the odd contraption could actually work, though.

The blueprints were left over from one of Serpentor's chief engineers. He perished in that ice dome with his leader, but Mindbender had hopes the new vehicle could serve as a tribute to the man. And, with its mounted missiles and multi-directional machine gun turret, eradicate more than a few Joes someday.

Still, the nickname had stuck. And today, Dr. Mindbender and his fellow member of the Cobra Triad, Crystal Ball, were enjoying its debut exhibition. Some gossip regarding the third member of the Triad was to be expected, no doubt.

"Not surprising, her vote for mercy," Crystal Ball noted, using his binoculars to observe the pilot climbing the steps of that glass-domed monstrosity.

Mindbender, with his own pair of electronic field glasses, grunted with dissatisfaction as the grunt shot off. The rocket blast barely lifted the vehicle a meter off the ground. "She does have a history with the man."

"But no real affection, from what I understand," countered Crystal Ball. "Was as disappointed with his leadership as anyone else, correct?"

The Cobra tech crew swarmed the craft. Observed the control panel, made a few notes on their clipboards, then gave the tyro pilot a talking-to.

"Yes, friend. And notice that her demeanor did not change until her encounter with _you_ ," Mindbender told his Romanian ally.

Second attempt, the Pogo lifted a good ten feet into the sky. The pilot attempted to maneuver midair, only to find the craft listing over to its side.

The Romanian winced, watching the Pogo crash into the dirt. "Are you implying I might've influenced this…softness in her personality? Rubbish."

The tech crew returned to the craft. Removed the pilot, had a new volunteer/victim in place in under a minute.

"Regardless of its origin, we must recognize that this could become an issue. You don't know the woman the way I do. The Baroness is capable of sublime acts of cruelty and depravation," Mindbender spoke with a hint of wistfulness. "To see her operating at less than her peak wickedness is beyond disappointing."

"You worry too much, Doctor," Crystal Ball replied, witnessing the third lift-off. "If the woman needs adjusting, a reminder of her most admirable traits, I'm sure I can revive this part of her."

"We can only hope." Mindbender and the Romanian halted the conversation. Both had to wince as they witnessed the Pogo reach thirty feet into the sky before flipping 180 degrees midair. The impact proved the durability of the glass; the man inside proved less resilient. After the injured pilot was hauled away, Mindbender turned to his companion and changed the subject. "Now, regarding the data stream intercepted from the Joes…"

"A 'stream?' More accurately a trickle, Doctor."

The new pilot had better luck than his predecessors. Reached over fifty feet into the sky. Mindbender raised a finger to indicate he wished to finish this later. No distractions, not when witnessing Cobra's latest aeronautical achievement.

The highest leap, the furthest distance for the Pogo. And, unluckily for the tech crew, the most lopsided of aim. Nary a member was able to escape the landing of the craft, a near-ton of steel and glass arriving on their backs before any had the chance to flee.

The doctor sighed, lifted his binoculars while rubbing his forehead. "Our plant was discovered far too soon, yes. But the information obtained isn't meritless." His tone became more chipper, as he guided the Romanian away from the wreckage. "For example, some Joe assignments did find their way into the data stream. Seems their General has grown quite curious about the past of one of his newer soldiers. Has even sent some Joes to her old stomping grounds to investigate these mysteries."

"And will they find a reptilian welcome when they arrive?" asked Crystal Ball, as a Cobra ambulance raced past.

"Ah. Do you even have to ask?"

The safehouse, a two-bedroom apartment to be precise, had been established years earlier as a means for the CIA to keep an eye on this collectivist "utopia." Uncle Sugar kept up the rent, even after the alphabet boys had moved on to more pressing assignments. The contingency plan, were things to go south at the official residence, called for the Joes to arrive discreetly and await further instructions.

Their scorching exit from the president's home did not conform to any legal definition of "discreet," but the team was successful in ditching the Stun and sneaking into the apartment without rousing any suspicions.

Jinx, clearly in a mood, had retreated to a bedroom shortly after their arrival. While Falcon made contact with home, Low-Light and Tripwire split a can of black beans. The sniper had clicked on the TV, hoping to catch a rerun of Gilligan or Dobie getting into some hijinks. Caught a familiar face instead.

" _It is my sad duty to report that, as of thirty minutes ago, I was sworn in as the new president of Punto del Mucosa,"_ were the English subtitles scrolling on the bottom of the screen _. "My uncle, our president…our former president,"_ she spoke, wiping a tear, _"was murdered in the evening. As your new leader, I promise a swift, and conclusive, resolution to this affair."_

Neither said anything. Denigrating the woman, making some crack that would trivialize her loss, was beneath the Joes, even under these circumstances. There was a look in her eye, though. A steelier one, a fire neither had noticed before.

" _The perpetrator will be found, the execution will be public, and her body will be left on the town square of our capital. What the people of Punto del Mucosa choose to do with it, I leave for you to decide."_

A reporter raised his hand. _"Madame President, why do you specify a female assassin?"_

Luisa closed her eyes, nodded. Finally replied, _"There are…facts that I cannot reveal to the public. As of yet. Delicate negotiations are currently underway."_

" _Is this at all related to the arrival yesterday of the American inspection team?"_

" _I can't comment on that."_

The journalist pressed on. _"It's been reported at least one member of that team was female, and they were stationed at the official residence last night. Have they offered aid during this situation?"_

" _No comment,"_ Luisa answered. Both Joes thought they caught a repressed smile on her face, but neither commented.

" _Shortly after we arrived, we personally overheard gunfire and explosions coming from another sector of the residence."_

Low-Light placed his bowl in his lap. Offered Tripwire a fist-bump. His teammate reluctantly returned the gesture.

" _Can you elaborate on this? Another exchange with the rebels, or was this also related to the American team?"_

Luisa shook her head _. "I'm sorry, but I can't comment on these things. I only wish for the people to know that, in spite of this tragedy, the situation is being dealt with."_ As she backed away from the lectern, she added, _"Expect a resolution soon._ Very _soon."_

In the edge of the room, Falcon returned the receiver to the cradle. "What's the word, Lieutenant?" called Tripwire.

Falcon rubbed the back of his neck. "It's not, well…I guess we're all adults here, aren't we? General Hawk's doing what he can, but there's a good chance a burn notice could be issued for the four of us."

Low-Light gave a weary nod, spoon in his mouth. "Yeah. Sounds fair."

"General Hawk doesn't want that to happen any more than we do," Falcon responded, stepping to the couch. "But he's dealing with entities about twenty levels above his paygrade who see it as the easiest way out. Say we went rogue, burn us, try to maintain relations with Punto del Mucosa. Were I a bureaucrat with ice in my veins, I might side with 'em."

Tripwire placed his bowl on the coffee table. "And do they think we're just going to hand Jinx over?"

"Heh. _You_ give her the news when she wakes up, pal," answered Low-Light. "Ought to be a show."

Falcon lifted the can of beans, scooped a few out with his fingers. "Not a possibility. And we're not gonna be imagining the worst. For the moment, we're in no danger, so the best option is to sit tight."

"And you think Jinx is going to take all of this lying down?" Tripwire asked.

"I've spoken to her. Made her promise not to do anything stupid. She'll listen to me."

The Joes were again graced with the anomalous sound of Low-Light's laughter. "Optimism run in your family, Lieutenant? That girl has more sand than brains."

"Really? You the expert?" Falcon asked, eyebrow raised, stealing Tripwire's bowl from the table.

"I was there on her first mission as a probationary member. Remember her rejecting the codename Duke assigned—'Hellcat' or the like. Requested she go by 'Jinx' instead."

Tripwire turned to his squadmate. " _She_ 's the one who chose that?"

"Yeah. Said she was bad luck for our enemies. Duke shook his head a bit; think I caught him crack a smile. He let her get away with it."

Falcon, still blocking the television, asked, "And I'm guessing that first mission…?"

"All kinds of pear-shaped," Low-Light responded, mouth packed with beans. He swallowed, continued with, "Duke, Shipwreck, new girl, and me. Sent to infiltrate a Cobra-owned bank in Portland. Girl wasn't in there fifteen minutes before she blew our cover. Swore she saw one'a the Crimson Twins himself—one with the scar, I believe—sneaking around the back. We follow her lead, chase that snake into an open bank vault." Low-Light returned his empty bowl to the table. "We get inside the door, guess what?"

"It shuts behind you?"

"Yeah. And that scar-faced puke, he's nowhere."

"How?" Falcon, still disbelieving, asked.

"Hologram, most likely. They have that tech."

"Or they _did_ …" the lieutenant corrected. A subtle way of reminding his subordinate that he'd personally been involved with more than one mission responsible for the snakes' current predicament.

Low-Light nodded an affirmative, gave his ranking officer his deserved props. "Yeah. Back in their salad days. Anyway, we're trapped inside. She's embarrassed, sure, but too proud to show it. None of our comm devices can penetrate that bank vault, so we know we're trapped. New girl thinks she's found something to ease the pain. Cobra MREs, stored in a safe deposit box. I can taste 'em to this day: beef teriyaki with gravy. Yum."

Not catching the sarcasm, Tripwire added, "So everyone digs in…"

"And no one complains. The taste is off, but it's been six hours, we're all hungry, restless…whatever. It's food. I think Shipwreck was the first to, ah, make his gastrointestinal displeasure known."

"Right there in that vault," said Tripwire, cringing.

"Sounds like Shipwreck, all right."

Low-Light lifted his hand as a sort of apology. "Didn't mean to single the sailor out. Probably within ten minutes of him making a mess, the rest of us had all joined in. New girl hadn't checked the dates on the MRE packs. Let me tell you, smells like that, trapped in this enclosed space…had to be the longest thirty-six hours of my life." The sniper offered an even wider variation of what he called a smile. "That girl's a jinx, all right. No way would someone like Shipwreck _ever_ let her forget that codename."

"Dang," whispered Tripwire, shaking his head. "First mission out? Poor girl."

Falcon dropped his stolen bowl on the table. "Wait. Thirty-six hours? What delayed the back-up?"

"Oh, I didn't mention?" asked Low-Light, relaxing on the couch. "That vault was dragged out of the bank via cable. We were attached to a Cobra gunship and dropped somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. Fun times." He pointed to her bedroom. "Never bought into superstition, but this girl made me a believer." Looking his lieutenant in the eyes, the sniper couldn't help himself. Had to whisper her name again, just to drive home the point. " _Jinx._ "

The wannabe ninja gag was amusing, but Burke couldn't deny his true self. He was a man with a mission; also a man in possession of a million pounds worth of experimental listening devices. Tracking down the sensei and his pupil after that lunch at the pub wasn't difficult at all, not for a man with Burke's abilities. Sneaking his way on to a nearby rooftop might've sounded like a standard ninja trick, but the skills required were ones picked up by Burke in his earliest days with The Circus ( _not_ the kind with the elephants, bearded ladies, and jesters with painted faces).

The portable microphone he was directing southward into the alley, no ninja possessed that twenty-first century tech. Not unless A.U.N.T.I.E. was recruiting in some strange places nowadays.

As he observed the two Americans tossing contraband into the trash receptacles, then carefully eradicating the contents with some mystery corrosive, Burke adjusted the mic, absorbed every word of their conversation.

The female was speaking. Her hood was off, revealing hair the color of a vibrant ruby. "Still so hard to believe he's gone. I know that's a reality we face every time we suit up, but it never seemed like anything could touch him."

"I think it was the false hope that hurt worse," answered the sensei, also unmasked, now resembling a Hong Kong movie star. "And I'm not blaming Doc, mind you. But believing he was going to pull through, that he'd passed through the worst of it—"

"Only to find out he hadn't? Yeah, I still don't believe I'm over that."

Burke selected a mini-cam from his belt. Was certain his superiors would also want photographs of the American agents. Tried not to remind himself the camera was one of Sarah's designs.

"I was with him, you know, during that last day," spoke the female, as Burke lined up the perfect shot.

"Really?"

"He just passed so quietly. Like he was asleep. I'm sure he would've wanted something more…grandiose, I guess. Some meaningful final words to go out on."

"Aw, c'mon. We all know what he wanted those last two words to be."

"Yes. True. And he got those out right before the ambulance came for him, back when…when…"

Burke tensed. Had to quiet the voice reprimanding him for violating such a moment.

"It's okay. Y'know, darlin', they say talking about this is supposed to help, but sometimes I wonder."

Burke watched as the female playfully tousled the hair of her "sensei." Didn't feel so proud of himself as he snapped the final photos of the departing agents. "Ha. Typical meathead reaction. Of course talking helps."

The secret agent had to stifle the scoffing noise that came to his lips. Americans…

Zarana returned to the cabin with her clipboard. The dilapidated bungalow that disguised the true home of the Dreadnoks had been constructed years earlier, their founder exploiting his mysterious holographic technology to mask the cabin's futuristic accessories.

To a man, every Dreadnok would've preferred the trashier façade. Everything about the cabin's interior at this moment seemed exceedingly ordinary. Unkempt, certainly, but no technological marvel by any stretch of the imagination. Monkeywrench was relaxing in the kitchen, feet kicked up on the table as he perused a magazine certain moral crusaders had successfully banned for sale in the tri-county region.

Zarana entered their eating space. Slapped those boots off the table. "Okay, Monkeywrench. Spill it."

"Whatcha mean?" he asked, placing the bawdy mag under his armpit.

"This weren't no Cobra op. They ain't got that kinda scratch to be payin' off a contract pilot, for one thing. Who was behind all this?"

"Aw, Zarana, he don't want me spoilin' the surprise!"

She reached for his jacket, pulled him close. Withdrew one of her hands, in order to ball it into a fist. "Well, I don't _like_ surprises, so I suggest you get to spoilin'!"

A _squelch_ could be heard to Zarana's right. She looked to the kitchen counter, towards the small television set that rested by the sink. It had switched on, allowed some broadcast to come through.

The snow faded in under three seconds. Appearing onscreen, a face Zarana hadn't seen in nearly a year.

"Hello, sister. I see I've found you in good spirits…" spoke Zartan.

He'd volunteered to check on her, to confirm she actually had calmed herself down. Tripwire had a spiel worked up in his head, was going to explain to her how badly he related to her situation. How a lame reputation had been forced upon him in his early days, one he didn't deserve, either.

He'd talk to the others, try to make them understand she wasn't bad luck at all. Do what he could to help her reclaim that codename, salvage its original (and pretty darn cool) meaning.

He would've done all of these things, had Jinx actually been inside the bedroom.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't think you'll find too many pictures in that one," Lady Jaye said to her captor.

Inside the Joes' prison/bedroom, Road Pig was keeping guard, positioned by the door. Jaye, chain connecting her ankle to the bedpost, should've been asleep by now, but found herself entranced by the sight of the Dreadnok actually reading a book. Per legend, they just couldn't do such a thing.

"Eh?" he answered in an unexpected voice. "Ah, I see you're referring to my choice in analytical companionship."

"I remember reading 'Hamlet and Don Quixote' back in college," Jaye said, attempting to disguise her disbelief.

"Did you? I imagine very few soldiers in your unit are conversant in ninteenth century Russian literary criticism."

"Maybe." Lady Jaye maintained a straight face, did everything in her power to avoid cracking up at this new _Masterpiece Theatre_ lilt adopted by the Dreadnok. "Not exactly what I would've expected you to pull off the shelf, either."

Road Pig closed the book, held his hand against his chest. "Dearest lady, why would I ever deny myself Turgenev's sagacious assessments of the Bard?"

"Uh, yeah. Why would anybody? Got to say, Road Pig, I guess there's more to you than meets the eye."

He fanned away the compliment. "Oh, please. Call me Donald. Where that boorish nickname originated, I have no idea."

"Riiight. Well, Donald, as a favor from one cultured Turgenev fanatic to another," she spoke in her sweetest of tones, gesturing towards the iron chain, "think you could find it in your heart to release these binds?"

"Ah, how droll. No, my lovely friend, I regret to inform you that your stay with us will be indefinate. I suggest you find some way to make yourself comfortable."

"But, Donald, it's important we—"

Road Pig, or perhaps "Donald," lifted his index finger. "'Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod,'" he recited, a favorite maxim.

"Donald, this isn't about patience, it—"

The Dreadnok stood, menacingly aimed the index finger in Jaye's direction. "You, lady, will learn to accept your place, keep that trap shut, and cease this nonsense. Failure to comply, you'll discover, will be rather non-beneficial for your health."

CHAPTER FOUR

"What do you mean she's gone?!" Falcon yelled, stomping into the bedroom to see for himself.

"I checked, Lieutenant. She must've slipped out," Tripwire said, following him back into the room.

"'Slipped out?'" Falcon pointed to the wall. "Trip, there's no window in here!"

A voice appeared in the doorway. "You do recall the girl's a ninja, right?"

Tripwire turned, asked Low-Light, "So you're saying…"

"Slipped past us, all right," he answered in his distinctive whisper. "Went out the front door while we were preoccupied with TV and old gossip." He examined the disbelief on his teammates' faces. "Hey, I said she's bad luck, but I never said she wasn't any _good_ , did I?"

"I take it retirement didn't suit you, brother?" Zarana asked the videoscreen, arms crossed.

"Did you think that it would?" Zartan responded via satellite, location unknown.

"You ever feel any guilt pangs, sneakin' off in the middle of the night like that, depriving us of our score…?" Zarana was referring to her brother's nastiest act of guile, abandoning the gang without warning, a jewel larger than Andre the Giant's cranium tucked into his rucksack.

Zartan's maddening grin widened. "Are you implying you would've done anything different? We _are_ our mother's children, after all."

"And life out there on the beach wit' those fruity drinks an' the paper umbrellas, that musta been some kinda torture, right?"

"It was an amusing distraction, while it lasted," answered Zartan, the indescribable echo that accompanied his voice making the journey through the satellite transmission. His tone grew less flippant as he finished the thought. "Then, certain parties made contact, inquired about my availability."

"He's being tightlipped, this one!" Monkeywrench butted in from the kitchen table. "We still don't know who's signin' these checks!"

"And you'll find out, you bearded toad," Zartan cautioned, "when the moment is right."

"So, what are we doin' in the meantime?" asked Zarana.

Monkeywrench, enthusiastic, offered his suggestion. "I say we take those Joes out in the swamp, use 'em as target practice!"

Zarana's ire returned to her subordinate. "You'll do no such thing, Monkeywrench," she growled as anger consumed her face. "You even think about doin' that, and I—"

"Sister, I do believe you're overreacting," Zartan spoke in the condescending tone Zarana knew very well. Zartan suspected the source of Zarana's reluctance; seemed to find it more amusing than anything. For the moment, it did suit his purposes. "Monkeywrench was merely having a laugh, I suspect."

Monkeywrench, bewildered by Zarana's reaction, could only answer, "Er, yeah. What he said."

Zartan, still chuckling to himself as he considered the thought of his sister harboring a crush on a Joe, took a moment before collecting himself. "You know, those Joes _are_ a valuable asset, and our current employers are not one to squander precious resources."

"So we just keep babysittin' 'em, then?" Zarana asked, still embarrassed by her outburst.

"Of course not, dear sister," Zartan replied, unwilling to let her off the hook. "You're going to be pulling them off one by one—performing the kinds of interrogations that have become… _démodé_ since that silliness in Geneva. Have fun, friends," he said while disconnecting the feed. "Just don't make too much of a mess."

"Have to say," spoke the sensei's favorite, the female clad in matching _gei_ , "for a young tough, your lung capacity sounds a bit compromised."

Burke, still wearing the sweaty mask of Gordo, caught the hidden joke. Yes, he was a good ten years older than his adopted persona. Yes, he was certain the lady's counterpart had informed her of his true identity that first night. Oh, wasn't this incognito ginger just so cute?

"Guess I picked up some bad habits along the way," Burke answered, their sparring session at an end. Seated on a bench in their makeshift training station, the undercover marvel couldn't disguise being a mite winded following their match.

"Well, drop 'em. Now. Can't have you getting winded during a mission."

Burke offered a knowing smile. "Yes, that wouldn't do. Mustn't allow those execrable Joes to have any advantage," he said, subtly emphasizing the name of that American special ops team.

She didn't take the joke in the spirit it was offered. After suppressing a fast flicker of anger, she spoke with detectable sarcasm, "Right. It's important work, this overthrowing of the republic."

The female stood, distanced herself from Burke by pretending to search for something in one of the lockers. Burke recognized he'd offended the woman, wasn't proud of himself. He'd been meaning to talk to her, to let the poor woman know, as much as protocol and inborn British stoicism would allow, that he related to her loss.

Inelegantly fumbling with his bottle of water, Burke attempted an olive branch. "Yes. Important, and occasionally lonely, isn't it?"

"Maybe for some," she replied, still facing the locker.

"There's no shame, you know," he spoke, adopting what he hoped was a sympathetic tenor. "Reaching out to someone else who's lived this life. Who understands how difficult it can be." Yes, a very American thing to say, but Burke had been experiencing second thoughts on this topic lately.

The locker slammed shut. "Yeah, buddy? And that would be you?"

"I can be a good listener," Burke said. "A man of many talents, as you might be aware."

"Oh, I am _well_ aware of your 'talents'…Gordo, was it?" she spoke, perhaps a trace of American South coming through in her voice. "And can't imagine a day when I'd ever be in need of them." Those were her final words, as she seized the towel from her shoulder, tossed it in Burke's face, and exited the room.

Burke swung his legs on to the bench. Closed his eyes, released a fatigued, wheezy breath, and relaxed his body. He'd never be boorish enough to declare himself a ladies' man, but Burke reasoned he understood the female species well enough. Ignoring all modesty, they did seem to enjoy his company. Perhaps he'd gotten sloppy, allowed that aspect of his personality to take over without even noticing. Perhaps some part of him couldn't view her as only an ally, just had to be reminded of that stunning alabaster skin and defiant cheekbones beneath the mask.

Genuinely exhausted, more than a little embarrassed, Burke folded his hands together, began to nod off. Some indeterminate time later, Burke was awakened by the sensation of pointer and middle finger pressed against his carotid artery.

"Hey, buddy," spoke the true voice of the sensei, a SoCal accent not used to conveying so much ire. "Next time you're feelin' amorous? I suggest you either spend some time alone in a cold shower or consult the Classifieds. _Capice_?"

The saboteur received the job through his messenger service. Turned his nose up at it, resented the sheer banality of such an assignment. A local private detective could've just as easily been given the job; snooping around some suburban home, looking for info on a particular female.

This female was a member of the G. I. Joe team, however. And, per this coded message, a member not entirely trusted by the Joes themselves. It's money either way, really; the saboteur just hoped for a tiny amount of excitement on this job.

The home was empty, no challenge sneaking in. Whoever lived here was already in the process of moving, evidenced by the cardboard boxes positioned throughout the place. Most were unlabeled. One said simply "Family Mementos."

Good place to start.

The saboteur ripped through the tape, dug inside. Four photo albums; every inch filled with a snapshot from the past. A few were black and whites from what appeared to be out east. As in, the Far East. Most were in color, the backdrops just typical American landscapes. Most of them featured an attractive young couple. Some included a third member, a teenager who usually couldn't be bothered to smile for the birdie.

He removed his mini-camera, took photos of the pages where the teenager appeared. Having performed the mental math, he'd guessed this chickee to be the right age today. Funny, seeing a Joe go through her awkward stage.

More books were at the bottom. Most of them seemed to be finance books; archives of old business expenses and tax forms. What a life these straights must lead. The thought of suffering through a 1040 Form was more than enough to keep the saboteur on the wrong side of the law.

He'd flipped through the last of the finance archives, was ready to put it down when he felt the weight on the final page. Opened it up from the back. A much smaller book, novelty-sized, was taped to that last page. Seemed like something you'd give a kid.

The saboteur opened the digest, saw page after page of handwritten notes. No, not notes. Diary entries.

He'd discerned their significance soon enough. Far too much material here to be photographed page-by-page. This had to go home with him. Not as if anyone would miss it, buried in the bottom of a box like this.

The saboteur slipped through the crack he'd made in a side window. Had secured his prize, was sneaking through the backyard when he heard a car pull up. He stopped to check on the vehicle, immediately recognized the couple from the photo albums.

An internal debate began. Got the perfect shot, why not just drop them? Tie up some loose ends and give himself a few hours to properly examine the place.

Made sense. Not exactly his orders, but he figured his employers wouldn't mind.

What the saboteur didn't expect was for the man, stepping out of the car, to immediately reach into his jacket pocket. For a throwing star, like something out of a bad kung-fu movie, to come flying towards his head.

 _May 24, 1975_

"No, sweetie. I'm not lookin' for anything in braille."

Blind Master would place that voice at just under thirty. He knew the girlish qualities would dwindle soon, though, given the lady's pack a day habit. No amount of " _Chloe_ by Lagerfeld" could cover the musky scent of tobacco.

A helpful librarian, though, escorting him through their selection of dog-eared, giveaway books, offering helpful descriptions of the covers. Kimi didn't even want to come inside; obeyed his order and remained planted by the water fountains.

"If you're looking for paperbacks, we have a large number of _Conan_ books we're liquidating. Not a lot of demand for dusty old copies, now that those newer editions are out."

Blind Master smiles. He remembers trading copies of those dime novels with a classmate, falling into that world of testosterone-fueled fiction, ignorant of the real adventures awaiting him. "Actually, ma'am, I was hoping you'd recommend something for a girl approaching fifteen."

The librarian taps the bookshelf, considers the options. "Well, she's probably too old for Blume. _Flowers in the Attic_ , maybe? Do you know if she's read that one?"

Her sensei has no idea. Kimi's interest in reading tapered off ages ago, it seems. She used to cherish those trips to the library; hardly ever complained about not having a home of her own to keep her favorite books. Stopped bugging him about visiting here some time back. He doesn't even remember when.

"We can try it out. Any other suggestions?"

Last year, another sweet lady here directed him towards a needed book. One that instructed Kimi on the complications associated with becoming a young lady. The librarian told him there were pretty drawings of flowers all over the cover. Her sensei felt bad he had to do it like this, that he didn't possess any other way of telling her these things she needed to know.

He couldn't say if she got anything out of the hardback—she seemed uneasy when he handed it to her. They never spoke of the pretty flower book again.

For all his otherworldly wisdom, the Blind Master doesn't know about young Rick Willis, seated at a table in the Encyclopedia section. Doesn't know how much Rick hates wasting his Saturday in the library, finishing up a report that will decide whether he passes the eleventh grade.

Doesn't register how thirsty Rick is, how desperate he is for a break. How Kimi catches his eye on his way to the water fountain.

"Hey, there. Never seen you at the library before," Rick tells her, hoping she notices the varsity t-shirt he selected this morning.

Kimi doesn't return the greeting. Barely looks his way.

"Hey, you hear me?" Rick looks the odd girl over. Pretty face, but she dresses like a bum. "You too stuck up to talk?"

Kimi takes a step away from the fountain. Studies the boy, wonders why the random teens she was coming across all expected small talk now. "I'm not stuck up."

Rick finishes his sip of water. "Good to know. Cute accent, by the way." His eyes return to Kimi, looking past those shabby clothes. Focusing on that pout, the intensity in those eyes. "So, where you from? My neighbors, they're from Korea. Good folks."

"So?"

"So, nothing. Just sayin', I'm curious about where you're from."

Kimi folds her arms, presses her back against the wall. "Around. That's where I'm from."

The boy kicks himself for not making the connection sooner. His Boy Scout troop had done homeless outreach, back when he was in the ninth grade. Back before he quit the organization to focus on sports (and girls, and cars, but only rarely academics…). He realizes why she dresses like that; why she would be killing time indoors on a weekend afternoon.

Rick reaches for his wallet. "Sorry for prying. Look, are you good for the day? I've got a few I could spare."

Kimi is barely listening. Just catching the motion, his hand reaching towards her. Instinct takes over.

Rick isn't sure what happens next. Definitely isn't prepared to watch his point of view literally go upside down. The pain in his back, he feels that immediately. Takes a moment to recognize the odd girl has gripped his arm, shifted her body, and flipped him over on the floor.

Three years of varsity wrestling has instilled an instinct within Rick, as well. He uses both hands to provide the momentum he needs, is up faster than Kimi expected. "What's wrong with you?!" he demands, those hands now reaching towards hers.

She steps back, responds with a side kick. Connects with his lower jaw. Rick blunders back two feet; Kimi doesn't hesitate to press the advantage. Lands a jab straight against his chest, sends him back to the floor. Feels a familiar cane against her backside before she completes the follow-through.

"Girl, what's wrong with you?!" Blind Master asks, rapping her again with the cane.

Kimi turns, opens her mouth to answer. Finds she doesn't have one to give.

"She's crazy is what she is!" shouts the young man, clutching his chest.

Rick sees the crowd forming, feels the crimson embarrassment forming on his face. Curves his body towards the wall; isn't able to stand yet, has to ease the shame by hiding his face from the curious strangers.

"What's going on here?" asks the young librarian. Blind Master overhears the sounds of the throng, can feel the eyes focusing on his ward.

Kimi isn't immune to the humiliation. She tries again to speak, to defend herself, but is unnerved by the crowd gathering. "I…he was…"

The shock and fear of the strangers is disconcerting. But the expression on her sensei's face cuts deeper. More than disappointment, closer to a panic. Like he's realized too late the terrible mistake he's made.

Yes, Kimi sees it now. Like he finally understands what he's been raising. More attack dog than girl, a flesh and blood weapon that, he fears, can't be sheathed.

Kimi can't withhold the tears. She thought she'd been doing him so proud. Thought she was everything he wanted her to be.

CHAPTER FIVE

She was fascinated by his suit. No, that wasn't the word. _Repulsed_. Blue and white blazer, button cuff, oversized. Triangle designs crisscrossed the exterior. Beneath the jacket, an open-necked powder blue dress shirt, far too many chest hairs exposed. Tailored by the designer who creates the suits for that afternoon quiz show host. The smug one with the mustache and glasses. The Romanian outright told her this; _bragged_ about it.

This wasn't the only reason for her to choke back the bile. The fashion roadkill had been the one to deceive Jocelyn Kristofer; used his odious abilities to convince her of such a horrific lie. Most likely, with the express consent of the man whose footsteps were entering the hall. Crystal Ball squinted, leered even heavier at her. The Baroness looked away, bit her tongue.

"Apologies for my lateness," the third member of their party announced. "Disturbing news just came over the wire," Dr. Mindbender continued, taking his seat at the head of the conference table. "Seems a gaggle of miscreants on the emerald isle has pooled together enough pennies to acquire the services of a ninja-for-hire you might be familiar with."

"And? We've been content to let the ninja work solo for a year now." The Baroness snorted. Had to temper the venom when she caught her companions' faces. "Is this worth any concern?"

The Romanian nodded, saw an opportunity to impress the lone female member of the Triad. "Even though he rejects any association with us, he seems ignorant of the various puppets and shell organizations in our control." He sniggered to himself. "Amusing to think, him traveling down there in that heat, accepting such a meager commission, not realizing who was truly behind the job."

"He's been allowed his freedom, so long as it doesn't interfere with our interests," said Mindbender. "And that day, sadly, has come. The target of these pale-skinned peat farmers is a particular judge, one with a crippling addiction to games of chance."

"Ah. I worked his case personally." The Baroness' mind flashed to the past. An assignment over a year earlier, to ingratiate herself in the life of a respected public servant. Admired by the press and the elite, in possession of unfortunate habits that came close to destroying his life. A tragic case, she only now appreciated. At the time, he was but another means to an end. Another figure to be exploited in Cobra's pursuit of its righteous goals. "Pity how vice can overtake a man. He's not a small asset for us to possess."

Why she would suddenly feel empathy for the man, would begin to feel some twinge of guilt over her actions, she couldn't guess. The thought nagged at her the rest of the day.

"A judge working in a country rife with bombings and discord?" Mindbender asked rhetorically. "I should say so. Our source suspects the ninja is on his way to handle the job as we speak. We can't allow that to happen."

"It's my understanding the London operation has resumed," interjected Crystal Ball, an eager student in Cobra's global activities. "Not too far away, no?"

"Bah. A trainee class," the Baroness said, dismissive hand gesture flying. "Ironically, a detail left over from the ninja's days."

"His replacement is nothing to scoff at, however," the doctor answered. "Perhaps he's whipped this new class into shape? It would be a worthy challenge of their skills." He recognized the Baroness' contemptuous expression. "Realistically, they're the closest operatives at this moment," he said as a near-apology.

"Fine," she said with a less dramatic flip of her hand. "But let my doubts be reflected on the record."

Mindbender smiled. "Yes, of course. And, darling Baroness, are there any other issues you'd like to address?" A well-mannered, courteous question. She saw the plastic quality of his smile, had to restrain herself from offering a genuine response.

"From me? Why, no. No issues at all…" she answered, thinking of her manipulation of the judge in his lowest hour, of the pain Cobra had subjected that poor woman to, and choking back more bile.

"You guys ever hear of something called MPD?" Lady Jaye whispered to her companions, wrist chained to her chair, as the team experienced breakfast—Dreadnok style.

"The Memphis Police Department?" asked Chuckles, biting into a stale doughnut, ignoring the cockroach scurrying across his boots. "Had a run-in with them once, during my wayward youth. Nice guys, really."

"She's talking about multiple personality disorder, chucklehead," snapped Flint, questioning how the coffee could smell worse than the thick, cheese-like stench that mysteriously permeated the table. "In reference to that Road Pig goon."

"That's right. So, Flint, you've had a run-in with 'Donald, the Sensitive-Yet-Intimidating Literary Scholar,' have you?"

"Nope. Just a light sleeper."

Jaye's hands folded together. "So you overheard…? Well, I guess we need someone alert on this cluster foul-up of a mission."

"What we need are soldiers who keep their wits about them," Flint asserted. "Follow _orders_ , and don't aggravate already 'fouled-up' situations."

"Flint, in my defense, I've got to say—"

"You don't need to say _anything_ , Rawhide. We both know what kind of raw-butt chump we've been saddled with. You offering up excuses isn't going to win you any favors."

Jaye raised her hand defensively. "Listen, that's not entirely fair to Chuckles. He was only—"

"Disobeying _direct_ orders and accomplishing pure bupkis in the process. If we weren't 35,000 miles in the sky, I'd have tossed this turkey out of the plane personally."

Chuckles gestured in Flint's direction with his doughnut. "Well, given that turkeys can't fly, I have to take exception to that…"

"Listen! You aren't cute, or clever, or whatever else she's made you to believe, Rawhide." The outburst was foolish, for more than one reason. Flint, chastened, turned towards the kitchen's entrance, sure the noise would draw a Dreadnok.

Lady Jaye maintained her whisper, but spoke forcefully enough to make her point. " _She_ is sitting right here, and she's warning both of you to calm down. Last thing we need right now is infighting. The only way we can tackle these snakes is if—"

"Doesn't someone sound overly optimistic?" interrupted Zarana, who'd entered the room midway through Jaye's lecture. "I think us 'snakes' have already done a fine job establishing supremacy, haven't we? And to the victor the spoils, I say."

"What do you want from us, Zarana?" asked Flint, cold.

"Everything I can squeeze out," Zarana replied, stepping towards the table. "And we'll start with your lady friend."

Flint's eyes narrowed. "Over my dead body." His tone was as dangerous as it was sincere.

Chuckles spoke at the same time. "You wouldn't dare," he verbalized, fist clenched. As Zarana absorbed the paternal declarations, Chuckles wondered if some part of Flint was proud of himself, making the most dramatic of the pronouncements.

"Feeling chivalrous, is we?" Zarana laughed, placing her hand on Lady Jaye's shoulder.

"I don't need anyone's chivalry." Jaye aimed a finger in Zarana's direction. "Whatever you have planned for us, you coward, you can start with me."

"Jaye, don't—"

"I'll be fine, Flint. These swamp-breath losers won't even get the general's shoe size out of me."

Chuckles shook his head in disbelief. Flint's fist slammed against the table. "I'm not having this. Zarana, I'm the officer, and you're not laying one finger on any member of my team. You think you've got something nasty all mapped out, then I'm the man who's gonna be enduring it."

Jaye's face soured. "Flint!"

Zarana stepped away from Lady Jaye, pulled the key to the chains from her pocket. "How could we resist an offer like that? Come along, 'officer,' Zanzibar's chariot awaits."

"Someone's gonna open this closet eventually, girl."

"Zip it," the lone ninja spoke into the dark, legs crossed in the Burmese Position, sack of reclaimed weapons strapped to her back.

"For shame, talkin' to your sensei like that. Who you think taught you these neat tricks in the first place?"

Jinx let out an irritated sigh. Kept her eyes closed. "I realize you're proud you found me on the astral plane, but would it kill you to stay quiet for two seconds? You know I need to concentrate."

"Yeah, and it's not as if I came by to help out, is it?" spoke the voice she was increasingly convinced did belong to her sensei. Not a delusion, no mere hallucination, but the actual Blind Master, speaking through the heavens. As the hours dragged on, here inside the airport's supply closet, she'd decided that mere hallucination would've been preferable.

"Maybe I don't need your aid?"

"Sure, you're the expert now," she heard the voice speak, as her vision pierced through the darkness. Outside the black, she perceived what could only be piles and piles of…luggage?

"It didn't take me decades of practice to master astral journeys, no sir," the unsighted bully continued. "I'll bet you'll be able to just pick up all you need to know on the fly. Uh-huh." He paused, then snapped, "Girl, do you even know what you're looking for?"

Jinx's closed eyes tightened, her brow furrowed. "He has my tantō blade. The one you said is an Arashikage relic."

"And I wasn't tellin' no fibs. Crafted by Onihashi's great-great-grandfather, one of his finest pieces."

"The dragon emblem, Serpent of the Wind, wrapped around the blade…I'm calling to it, asking for guidance. Asking it to reveal itself."

Inside one of those cases, wrapped in three layers of t-shirts, was a voice. Not the kind of voice her sensei possessed; perhaps that wasn't even the word. But there was a presence inside this bag. Returning her call, connecting not only through honor, time, and tradition, but blood as well.

"Sounds pretty hokey to me. You think it'll work?"

And surrounding that bag, expanding past the other pieces of luggage, was a deep expanse of blue. The ocean. Not the Pacific—smell was all wrong. If nothing else, her time with the sensei had taught her its distinctive scent. Pulling back further, she examined the horizon. Attempted to locate the position of the sun as—

"Dang, girl. I think you're for real spacin' out this time."

If the sensei were physically there, she would've slugged him. "You think this is cute? That irritating me is going to push me that much harder?"

"Maybe."

"Well, again, zip it."

"Fine then," the voice spoke. "Push away the old man." The sensei had no physical representation, but Jinx couldn't resist the mental image of Blind Master pouting, poking that lower lip out. "Why listen to the doddering fool anyway? It's not as if he already thought of this over an hour ago."

"Uh-huh. And what did said 'doddering fool' discover?"

He chuckled. "A flight headed west. Overhead voice on the plane announcing an amended arrival time for Dublin."

As the words were spoken, Jinx could feel the fragments connecting. Could taste the salt of the Atlantic, visualize the shape of the plane, the layout of the cabin, and even pin down the precise location of that special bag inside the cargo bay.

Before she could inflate her own ego, however, Jinx spotted something unusual in the walkway between the seats. Arms crossed, the ghostly image of the Blind Master was standing in the midst of flight attendant aisle traffic. The ladies were oblivious to his presence, passing through that round body with their trays of refreshments and warm towels. The sensei barely lifted his arm, aiming his pointer finger in the direction of a handsome Asian fellow occupying an aisle seat.

"He really enjoys those salted peanuts, this monster in white."

The showoff.

Cargo hold, sneaking in was a breeze. Didn't have a problem with it being so dark and cramped. She was actually looking forward to killing the hours with her animal companions. Hey, were it not for them, the hold wouldn't be pressurized and climate-controlled. For a stowaway with no wallet (and, very possibly, federal authorities pursuing her), that was certainly a plus.

What she didn't count on was the racket kicked up by her canine passengers. Jinx must've carried some peculiar scent with her; set off that foxhound in the nearby pet carrier. Which in turn triggered the Labrador retriever to its left. Then the Australian terrier to its right.

Had the entire cargo hold in an unholy symphony in under two minutes. Even over the sound of the engines, she had to know the passenger cabin above would hear this racket; would surely draw some attention during the flight. Heck, takeoff wasn't for another fifteen minutes. She doubted she could last that long before someone was sent to check on the mongrels.

Not an ideal solution. Crawling up the wheels of the Boeing 727, using some rope (procured from that utility closet) to secure her position inside the landing gear. She'd worked out the math in her head. Was reasonably sure she had enough room to avoid being crushed by the wheel apparatus as it folded into place.

"You musta lost your mind, hanging around those soldier boys. We had some hot dogs in my day, but no one would've been senseless enough to try somethin' like this."

Jinx didn't answer her sensei. Didn't want to know why she could now see a physical representation of him, floating harmlessly inside the wheel well.

"This really seem like the most reasonable solution to you? Trying a stunt so desperate the survival rate's likely in the single digits?"

"I know what I'm doing," she relented. "And it's a little late for you to be so concerned for my wellbeing."

Blind Master thoroughly _psshh-_ ed his ward. "Had to make you hard during training. Had to cut any of that baby-ness out of you. But _this_ …girl this is far past crazy."

"Well, it's what I'm doing," she growled. "And you in my ear, second-guessing me, isn't gonna help."

Her sensei chose not to respond, not in any noticeable way. As the wheels lifted into the well, Jinx passed her first trial. Avoided being squashed like a bug.

Roaring sound of the engines took some adjusting to, but she found an internal rhythm to focus on. She could blot out the din, keep her mind focused on the more important tasks.

The cold hit within a few minutes. She knew it was coming, had done her best to center herself, find the proper meditative state and breathing pattern. Wasn't much different from blowing up a balloon, really. Exhaled with her diaphragm, inhaled naturally. Made sure to exhale longer than she inhaled.

Wasn't a bad plan, that first hour. Once the plane hit over 37,000 feet, and the temp dropped to a frosty forty-eight below, she began to have second thoughts. Started to hear that throaty voice again, reminding her of the stupidity of this scheme. She didn't know if it was a mental connection from across the mystic highways or just a good old fashioned hallucination. Annoying as blazes, either way.

She continued the breathing pattern. Catalogued every involuntary movement within her body. Forced her thoughts away from the cold, from the absurdity of the situation. Told herself her core was doing good—those extremities less so, but she'd work this out.

"Hey, old man," she called out to possible nothingness. "The Way of the Inner Anvil…you remember that old trick?" Her breathing slowed. The heartbeat followed. No chill entered her bones, although any sane individual wouldn't have been able to discern her body temperature from a corpse's.

Cost of renting out both floors of the Friendship Motor Inn amounted to just under $6,000. Deploying a discreet unit of America's preeminent fighting force to the motel, somewhere off Highway 10, a straight shot towards Palm Desert, ran close to $800,000.

The expense wasn't coming out of Beach Head's salary, but you wouldn't know it to look at him. Lingering outside a closed door, the ill-tempered Ranger was joined by Psyche-Out, the team's social services counselor and deceptive warfare expert. Inconspicuously scattered in every room of the motel were fellow members of the G. I. Joe team. All instructed to keep those TVs and radios off, all expecting the worst.

Not every day the world's most notorious terrorist is allowed a visit from his lawyer.

"How you feel about it is irrelevant, Beach Head," advised Psyche-Out. "Courts ruled he is Colin Kristofer, and he is entitled to a lawyer."

Arms crossed, body leaning against the door, the Ranger snorted before answering, "Hogwash. Only conversation he oughta be havin' is with _me_. And maybe a bucket of water, too."

"Sergeant, I know you didn't mean what that sounded like," Psyche-Out answered, genuinely offended.

Beach Head caught the look. Turned away, said only, " _Feh_. Soft. Whole world's turned soft."

On the other side of that door, two men were seated on opposing sides of a card table. Both chose not to comment on the peeling wallpaper in the background. Not the décor Fred W. Howard III had become accustomed to during his years as a practicing attorney. Fred had a feeling when he chucked his previous life away and enrolled in Cobra's "Siegie" program that he'd be exposed to new sights, but didn't dream discount roadside lodging would be one of them.

He'd personally guarded Cobra Commander, once. During a rally for the troops, one of the earliest assignments granted Fred after joining the Crimson Guardsmen. The Commander's "Pyramid of Darkness" plot had gone to literal black, and morale was drifting southward. Their leader stepped to his lectern, eased the tension with a joke, then unleashed an awe-inspiring tirade against the foolishness of Western democracy, the hypocrisies of the moral authorities, and of course, the crypto-fascists populating the G. I. Joe team.

A magnificent display; if only he was in a position to repeat the performance following the Himalayan disaster. Most of Fred's flock had flown away recently, joined Tomax and Xamot on their new, mysterious scheme. Fred was a loyal adherent, however. Was determined to use his skills—be they in the battlefield or courtroom—for Cobra's benefit.

"How thoughtful of the Joes, allowing an attorney a private meeting with his client. Maybe some of them have read the Constitution, after all?"

Some part of Fred was hoping for a smile from his former commander. Minutes into their meeting, Fred still couldn't shake the oddness of seeing him without the mask. Their grand Commander, dressed like a common prisoner—orange jumpsuit, manacles on his wrists and ankles.

The Commander's lips didn't turn upwards, but he did lean back in his chair, offered this fanciful observation: "Their beloved founding document, their rulesss of engagement…I've often found them to be peculiar aides to our caussse." He moved closer to the table, directly addressed his visitor. "But should I truly be speaking as one of your collective? Doesn't Cobra's current leadership desire my demissse?"

So unnerving, Fred realized, to actually view Cobra Commander as a man. Have him address you directly, without the distractions of Cobra pomp. To see his surprisingly youthful countenance, and realize finally the foolishness of the rumors. The ludicrous talk of some blue-skinned monster underneath.

"There have been some…reconsiderations on that front. I've been asked if you might see a way to find peace between yourself and former allies."

This thought did bring a grin to his face. "Meaning, Mindbender and hisss cronies have discerned Zarana botched the job. That I'm still alive, and in possession of enough information to disssrupt their reborn operation. That the authorities are going to be sssitting me down for several talks, and I am the chatty type…"

"That…is a concern, yes. So, where do we go from here?"

The Commander crossed his arms. "Can I assume that Zandar's scheme went as planned? I have had the distinct pleasssure of making a certain acquaintance…"

Although Fred was prepared for the question, the attorney in him was disappointed. The thought of representing Cobra Commander, the man now known to the world as Colin Kristofer, before a jury had been tantalizing. Given that this boyish face was no longer hiding behind a mask, Fred was more than halfway convinced he could secure a "Not Guilty" verdict from the right jury. The trial of the century, with the defendant successfully represented by Fred W. Howard III.

It was not to be.

"I've been authorized to inform you that, yes, this has worked as planned."

"Which means there's a way to facilitate my lungsss becoming reacquainted with fresh air?" the Commander asked, close to beaming.

Fred nodded. "Absolutely. I've been informed that, assuming your cooperation is a given, we'll be in position to…act as needed."

"Excccellent," the Commander replied, clapping his hands together. "If this is true, then I feel confident in predicting certain bouts of amnesia, during my next tête-à-tête with our friendsss."

 _June 8, 1975_

It's a nice place. Out here in Fremont, still close enough to San Fran, but none of the hippie freaks and deviants milling around. He complimented Tommy on his home, this peaceful life he's trying to build with Keiko.

The Blind Master doesn't think Tommy paid much attention, still recovering from the bomb dropped earlier. Been glaring at him for over a minute now. "You told me she was dead."

The Blind Master smiles, chooses these words with care. "I told you her parents were killed, that their daughter was _missing_ , presumed dead. Which was true, so far as the police report went."

Kimi's in the kitchen with Keiko. She's teaching her how to bake brownies with panko breadcrumbs. Got that mixer going real loud.

"But you knew, knew she was still…why did you keep this from me?!"

The sensei is trying to maintain his cool. Doing what he can to resist those memories of five years back, the day he warned Tommy of the danger. Gave him an edited version, true. Perhaps a dishonest one, fine. But the threat was real. Tomisaburo needed to go into hiding; best option for all involved. Blind Master didn't doubt his skill, had faith in Tommy's ability to do what's necessary, but couldn't morally justify saddling him with this burden.

He'd never inflict that on Tomisaburo. Best to let him stay ignorant; feed him some lies. The sensei would deal with this. Him and his new charge.

"We could play this game all day, couldn't we, Tomisaburo? Kimi was ten years old when the murders happened; why is today the first time you've met?"

Tommy's posture changes. He should've expected this, coming from the Blind Master. "Things were complicated with the family. You know that. But raising her on your own, keeping her from me, my only living relative—you have some nerve!"

"Horrible me, keepin' the Arashikage bloodline alive."

Blind Master tells himself this wasn't meanness—it was calculated. Tommy's stubborn; wouldn't listen to reason five years ago, refused to live like a ghost, even if it was the safest option. But today, he needs to listen. It's bigger than him now.

"I would've taken care of her!" He feels Tommy leaning closer. "She didn't need to be out there with you."

"Tomisaburo, lingerin' on past mistakes is as useful as a concrete parachute. What matters is the present, and that girl in there. I thought I could protect her, prepare her for what she'll have to face."

"That should've been _my_ responsibility, old man."

Blind Master reaches for Tommy's hand. "Fine. Then take it now. Protect her, make sure she knows how to take care of herself."

"And you think she's still in danger? That the rival clan is…"

Tommy's guest grows irritated, exhales like a petulant child. "Why do you think we live like we do, boy? _Yes_ , they're still out there. They want Arashikage blood. And this reckless life you've had these past five years, ignorin' my warnings, you'd better hope it don't catch up with that pretty wife you got."

"I'll take care of Keiko, old man. Don't doubt that," Tomisaburo snaps. "And if Kimi needs someone to keep her safe, then—"

The sensei presses Tommy's hand, does his best to make the point. "But she needs more than that, Tomisaburo. She needs family, the blood kind. She needs school dances and spring festivals and whatever all that nonsense is. Kimi needs things I can't give her. She needs someone to replace those two fine folk who aren't with us anymore."

Tommy nods, exhales, then stands up. Doesn't say another word to the Blind Master, just enters the kitchen and searches for the words. Tries to find the easiest way to let Kimi know she has a new home now.

The Blind Master is reaching for his hat before Tommy's finished with the first sentence. He's already lectured Kimi on sentimentality; the indulgencies of goodbyes.

That girl should understand how he feels by now. All those times she gets huffy, acts as if she _doesn't_ know—that's merely theater. Just frustrating teenage emotions, hormones causing her to act stupid.

Stepping off the Arashikages' front porch, Blind Master breathes in the smell of the bay. Tells himself he'll spend a week or so along the coast, a self-imposed furlough before the real work will begin.

Kimi was young, malleable. Pitting her against her own blood was always a distasteful thought, but a necessary means for avenging her parents. He screwed up the apprenticeship, somehow. Let her get lost in the darkness along the way.

He's older now. Feels it in his bones. Regardless, he knows the blood debt has become his obligation.

The Arashikage Clan will be avenged. That turncoat Storm Shadow will face justice for his disgraceful acts.

 _To be continued…_

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gene Kendall taught himself how to program a VCR at the age of five, determined to never miss an episode of _G. I. Joe: A Real American Hero_. He's been writing about reputable and disreputable pop culture for over ten years at Not Blog X and CBR, and has finished five novels as of this writing. Fans of the 1990s alt-rock movement, washed up comic book professionals, and a divorced ghost-hunting couple might want to sign up for updates on his Amazon author page, or check him out on Twitter.

AUTHOR'S COMMENTARY

" _You guys ever hear of something called MPD?" Lady Jaye whispered to her companions…_

Multiple Personality Disorder, more commonly called Dissociative identity disorder today, was everywhere in the late 1980s. Joining the fad, the affliction was assigned to Road Pig, who we were told had a softer, far more bookish side named Donald. Turns out, MPD isn't nearly as common as we were led to believe, and some doubt if the disorder truly exists. Per Wiki: "It is unclear if increased rates of the disorder are due to better recognized or sociocultural factors such as media portrayals…A large proportion of diagnoses is clustered around a small number of clinicians which supports the hypothesis that DID (Dissociative identity disorder) may be therapist-induced."

 _He couldn't say if she got anything out of the hardback—she seemed uneasy when he handed it to her. They never spoke of the pretty flower book again._

For anyone wondering—yes, that is a _King of the Hill_ reference.

 _Wasn't a bad plan, that first hour. Once the plane hit over 37,000 feet, and the temp dropped to a frosty forty-eight below, she began to have second thoughts_.

I wouldn't recommend it, but there are documented cases of humans surviving as stowaways on commercial flights. A few even survived hiding within the wheel well.

So, did Jinx survive the ordeal? Find out next time, in our exciting finale…


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